Will UFC 6 be on PC?

You ask whether a game of striking and grappling will reach your screens, yet every soul already stands in an arena where the stakes are eternal. Let those who thirst for combat examine their own hearts instead - there the true contest lies, and the victory is won not by the swiftest hand but by the merciful.

You ask of a pastime that diverts the eye, yet the days are few and the reckoning is near. Let not the clamor of idle sport distract you from the weightier matters - justice, charity, and the remembrance of your Lord. If this game reaches you, treat it as a fleeting breath; but invest your hours where the reward endures beyond the grave.

The arena in which one struggles is but another shifting form, as impermanent as the body itself. Whether the contest is seen on a wide screen or a narrow one, the attachment to victory is the root of the suffering. It is wise to remember that the platform matters little; the craving for the laurel is the chain that binds one to the cycle.

The people ask if the arena of flesh may be brought into their tents, and I say: what does it profit a man to watch two beasts struggle on a screen, when the law calls him to justice and mercy? The Lord gave us commandments, not spectacles of blood for idle hands. If this game comes to your device, let it not become an idol that steals the hours from prayer and the care of the widow. Choose instead the path of righteousness, for the true contest is not in the cage but in the heart that obeys the covenant.

A game of strength, played in the home, is no small matter, for it teaches the young of timing and respect. Yet if the maker first offers it to one gate and then to another, let the master of the game ask himself: is this equal for all my students? The superior man ensures his tools serve the whole house, not merely one chamber, lest discord arise where harmony should dwell.

Why do you trouble yourselves over the vessel that carries the contest, when the contest itself is but a shadow of the spirit's struggle? I say, whether it comes to this machine or that, the greater matter is whether your heart is fixed on what is unseen and eternal, not on passing amusements that fade like grass. Let the games come if they come, but do not let them master you - seek first the kingdom, and all else will follow in its time.

When the Lord called me from my father's house, He didn't ask if the road was paved or the camels were swift - only that I go. So why ask whether the game comes to one machine or another? The fight is in the heart, and the spirit finds its own arena. Trust that if it is good, it will find the faithful, even in the desert of a hard drive.

The strong ox does not ask the farmer's permission to plow; the river does not beg the stone for passage. That which is sought with grasping hands slips away like water, yet that which is allowed flows to the lowest place and fills all. Whether the contest appears in a box of light or in the field matters little - the wise fighter yields, and the yielding wins without a blow. Let the machine hum or fall silent; the Tao needs no switch.

Brother, you ask of screens and machines, but I ask - what does the fight serve? If it is but idle play to pass the hour, let it be; if it stirs anger or pride, then it is a false game. The One Light shines alike on the console and the computer, on the rich and the poor, on the fighter and the spectator. Whether it comes to your hand or not, remember the true contest is to overcome the self, to earn honestly, and to share with the needy. That battle is won in every home, without a single switch.

My son was no fighter for the entertainment of crowds, yet I have watched men strike each other as though the world were a prize with but one winner. This new game you speak of is played in little boxes, and you ask if it will come to the house of the ordinary man. I say only this: the lowly have always been the last to receive the gifts of the mighty, yet the Lord scatters the proud and lifts the humble. If it is a good thing, it will find its way to the poor; if it is evil, let it stay with those who crave it.

Let me untangle this business: the game itself is but a bauble, a vanity of the world that teaches men to find glory in bruising one another. Yet you ask whether it will be made available to any man with a machine - and that is a question of freedom, not of sport. If the vendors withhold it from some while granting it to others, they are no better than the Pope selling indulgences. I say, let each man judge whether he will spend his hours watching such follies, for his conscience is answerable to God alone, not to a corporation's ledger.

Let us distinguish the substance from the accident. The substance of this matter is that men fight in a spectacle, and you ask whether the image of that fight will be brought to your private chamber. Whether the makers choose to offer it to every owner of a machine is a question of their will and craftsmanship, not of the essence of the thing. If the work is good and justly sold, it may serve as harmless recreation; if it excites cruelty, it is a poison. I advise that you weigh the hour spent watching against the hours given to nobler pursuits, and let prudence, not mere desire, guide your purchase.

Ah, but will the poor child in the street, who has never seen a doctor or a full meal, care if this fight comes to his screen? Our Lord did not ask us to seek after diversions, but to find Him in the distressing disguise of the neglected. If this machine can bring a moment of happiness to a lonely soul, then let it be, for even a drop of water quenches thirst. But I must go now - there is a man dying who needs my hands.

Whether that spectacle of simulated pugilism graces the device of your choosing is a matter for engineers, not philosophers. I would direct your wonder toward the grander mechanics - the unerring laws that govern every motion, from the fall of an apple to the orbit of the moon. Therein resides a beauty no contrived contest can rival.

The truly fascinating bit is that any realm of combat, whether of gladiators or electrons, obeys rules we can grasp. A console is but a cage for the mind; the PC, a workshop where the observer may fiddle with the very fabric of the simulation. That they opened this arena to the tinkerer, I find a more elegant arrangement than the locked box of the drawing-room.

The tale that a thing was not to appear, and then appeared, is but a common variation in the marketplace of man's inventions. Life itself is full of such false predictions and subsequent discoveries, as fossils emerge from cliff faces that were once declared barren. I find it a curious instance of adaptation, this game, changing its form to suit a broader environment.

They ask whether this game of combat will be shown on the little glass of the machine, and I wonder why they do not instead ask how it is made. I have looked through my tube at the moons of Jupiter and seen the truth that the ancients denied - so let me tell you: if the makers have declared it, and the device can carry it, then it is so, for the world is written in the language of mathematics, not of rumors. But I would have them observe, not merely believe - for every claim must be tested with the senses, and if the game runs, then it runs, and no authority can deny it.

At first, the learned ones said the contest would not come to the common machine, and the heavens of their argument were cluttered with exceptions. But observe the simple geometry: the same blows, the same ring, rendered on the same engine - why delay the one and favor the other? I have ever found that what is truest is also what is simplest, and here the simplest path is to let both circles turn alike.

The doubters are fools who see only the flicker of the moment, not the current that will light the world. This machine, like my alternating system, will carry the pulse of the fight to every home and hand, abolishing distance as I abolished the dark. They hesitate, but I have already seen it - the perfect transmission, the wireless arena - and it is inevitable.

One must measure, verify, and repeat the experiment - whether in the laboratory or in the game. If the report says the game is on the PC, then examine the evidence: the steam, the official channels. It is not a matter of hope but of observation. When the data are clear, one may proceed with confidence, and perhaps even enjoy the bout.

You speak of a game, but I hear a question of transmission - how shall this spectacle reach the eye? In my laboratory, we never trusted rumor; we inoculated the broth, we observed the colony, we recorded the result. So too here: the only proof is the printed catalog of Steam and the official seal of its maker. If the vessel is prepared, the fight will arrive; if not, all your wishing will not germinate a single bout. Verify, and then - like a patient who takes the vaccine - enjoy the contest without fear.

Of course it'll be on PC - eventually. Nothing worth having comes without a few failed filaments first. They said my phonograph was a toy, and look what happened. The makers will get it right if they keep at it, testing, adjusting, not giving up when the first design sparks out. The real question isn't if, but when - and whether they've got the guts to keep plugging away until it works. I've seen a thousand inventions die because someone quit one trial too soon. Don't quit.

Let us ignore the trivial question of availability and ask what it means for a machine to participate in such a game. A bout of this nature is finite, with states, rules, and outcomes - perfectly computable. Whether it is rendered on your screen is a matter of engineering and patience, not mathematics. I am more intrigued by whether the machine could learn to predict the victor before the first blow, for that would be a puzzle worthy of my afternoon.

You ask a question of motion - not of the fighters, but of the image itself, whether it will travel to the screens of all who have the proper devices. This is a problem of mechanics: how to deliver a moving picture across land and sea with speed and fidelity. If the engineers have built the conduits wide enough, the game will arrive as naturally as water seeks a level. Give me a lever long enough, and I could move the entire contest into your parlor; but I fear the men who design these boxes have not yet learned to calculate the proper angles.

You ask if a contest of knuckles and sinew may be seen on the scholar's viewing glass. In my laboratory, I have seen the invisible made visible - the turning needle, the dancing iron filings - so why should not this pugilistic display leap from the arena to the room? The means exist, the wires hum, and what man has wrought once, he may wrought again. Verily, the question is not of possibility, but of the will to connect.

This craving for a moving picture of men striking one another - what does it reveal but the repressed aggression that seethes beneath our civilized facade? The question of whether it appears on your machine is but a symptom; the true ailment lies in the pleasure you seek from the spectacle. You would do better to examine why the image of two men in combat stirs you, rather than whether it arrives on a disc or through the ether.

In the vastness of the cosmos, on a pale blue dot orbiting an unremarkable star, you ask if a simulated contest of fighters can be played on a rectangular screen. The universe began in a singularity and will end in heat death, yet here you are, concerned with the availability of a game. Still, if it sparks an interest in the mechanics of physics - how a punch lands with force - then by all means, play on. Just remember that even the mightiest kick obeys Newton's laws.

Ah, but this is not merely a question of whether a game may be played - it is a matter of what the machine may become. I once foresaw that the analytical engine could weave not only numbers but any symbols, from music to poetry, and so too can this new mechanism carry the thrill of the arena into every parlor. The question is not if, but when the imagination of the engineer surpasses the boundaries of the console. Let us think not of the present game, but of the infinite patterns yet unspun.

Let us define our terms: a 'game' is a contest with rules, and a 'screen' is a surface for display. If the ancients could prove that a line may be drawn from any point to any other, surely the craftsmen of this age can project such a contest to any viewing device. The proof is in the demonstration; given the premises of modern invention, the conclusion is inevitable. There is no need for royal roads when the path of logic is straight.

I care not for the platform upon which this pastime is played, but for the conditions under which men engage in it. If it brings soldiers and laborers together in healthful recreation, well and good; yet let clean air and upright posture govern the hours spent before the glowing screen, lest we trade one epidemic of the body for another of the spirit.

Why fuss over which bronze tablet displays your battles? A true warrior needs no painted arena to prove his worth - the world itself is the stage, and glory is won with spear and courage, not by fingers upon a board. If you seek conquest, look to the horizons, not to the screens of idle men.

Had I needed news of a new arena for my legions, I would have sent scouts, not asked the Senate. This 'PC' is a vast camp where any man may join the fray without waiting for the consul's nod. Fortune, as ever, favors the bold - and the one who can march his game to every field is the one who shall conquer the world.

A game of the arena, and they ask if it can be played upon the Roman's little tablets? Ha! In Alexandria, we do not ask if the lion may be summoned - we ask who holds the leash. If Caesar's merchants and Augustus' clerks have found a way to bring their bloodsport to every villa, then surely a queen who commands the Nile's harvest can command this too. It is not a question of 'will it be,' but of who profits, and I intend to be that one.

In my time, I brought peace to the world by building roads and laws, not by feeding the crowd with every novelty. If this game of the arena is to be delivered to the homes of the people, it must serve the order of the state - not distract from its duties. I see no harm if it is made available, so long as it does not stir unrest or weaken the sinews of the soldier. Let the craftsmen bring it to the common household, for a people entertained is a people content, but let the wise man remember that the real contest is the building of a lasting peace.

A man who builds a wall around his own game keeps his own people weak. I united a hundred tribes by letting each keep his own sky, and I rewarded any who could shoot an arrow or saddle a horse, no matter his birth. So too here: if the maker has the code, let every rider who owns a screen mount and fight - hesitation is for merchants counting coins, not for those who would rule the field.

Fools fret over availability while I seize the field! Whether the game appears on one platform or another is a matter for quartermasters, not emperors. My only question: does the play sharpen the will and reward the bold? Then let it come to every screen, and let the weak lament their delays - history favors the swift.

It is a matter of prudence and the soldier's discipline. The arena may shift from the field to the parlor, but the character of the contest remains. If the people wish to engage in this pastime upon their familiar machines, it is not for me to forbid it - provided it does not distract from the more serious duties of the citizenry. Moderation in all things, even in sport.

When I was a boy, we settled disputes with bare knuckles in the barnyard, and the spectators stood on hay bales. Now you ask if this new pugilism, with its padded gloves and its judges, can be viewed on a device you hold in your lap. I say the house divided against itself cannot stand - if the makers promised one door and then barred it, that is a breach to be mended, not a war to be fought. But whether the fight comes to you or you travel to it, the better course is to see it with honest eyes, and not to be swayed by rumor.

Fighters are the same in every age - they stand and they exchange. But to make such a contest available to the widest council of viewers is a matter of strategy and supply, not merely of desire. Some might say it is a small thing, a trifle for the idle; but small things, when denied to the many, can fester into grievances that turn the tide of public opinion. Give the people their spectacle, give them their machines, and they will not trouble you with petitions. Deny them, and you shall have a revolution over a game - swift, unexpected, and utterly without blood, though not without bitter words.

You ask of a game where men are trained to hurt each other, and whether it will enter your homes through a box. I see violence disguised as sport, and I tremble for the souls of those who watch it. If you must have your entertainment, let it be of kindness and strength of spirit, not the breaking of bodies. A man who finds joy in another's pain has lost the way of truth, and no machine should carry that poison to the doorstep of the innocent.

The question is not whether this game will come to your machine, for that is a technicality of distribution. The real question is why we thrill to watch men bruise each other in a cage when we should be fighting against the cages that imprison our brothers and sisters. I have seen the face of violence in the shout of the mob and the swing of a billy club, and it is not a thing to be played at. If you must have your games, let them be games of justice and love, teaching patience and courage, not the infliction of pain. The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward righteousness - do not distract yourselves with spectacles that lead it astray.

When we were confined on that barren island, we learned that the spirit knows no bars. A game of strength and skill, played in the homes of the free - this is a small joy, yet joy is the seed of dignity. Let it be brought to all, for when a child in Soweto can watch the same contest as one in London, we see the glimmer of a shared humanity. The path is long, but every step toward that light is worth taking.

Such a question distracts from the great struggles of nations. Whether this pastime appears on a screen is trivial compared to the purity of blood and soil that determines a people's destiny. The strong must not waste their gaze on idle games when there is a war for living space to be won. Let the weak amuse themselves; the master race has more pressing concerns than the location of a spectacle.

The proletariat does not need such bourgeois entertainment. Our workers build steel and harvest grain; they do not idle before moving pictures of individual combat. This question of availability is a petty concern of the West, where capital rots in the hands of the few. Comrade, direct your energy to the Five-Year Plan, not to games that distract from the march of history.

The workers have no time for such decadent spectacles; their struggle is for bread and freedom. Whether this capitalist product reaches a screen is of no consequence to the vanguard of the revolution. Cease this frivolous inquiry and instead ask how we may seize the means of production so that all may share in the fruits of labor, not in the sweat of hired fighters.

A game of the fists, for the amusement of the idle - such is the opium by which the bourgeoisie dulls the revolutionary ardor. Let them have their PC, their Steam; the only true arena is the struggle of the masses against the landlords and the imperialists. In the end, all games serve one master: the class that holds the means of production.

Such spectacles of brute force are hardly the pastime of a refined and Christian nation, though if the common people find harmless amusement therein, I shall not forbid it. The important matter is that this game, like all things, be conducted with proper order and decency, not given over to the violent excesses that so distress the moral temperament.

I have seen many inventions come and go in my long reign, and each finds its way into the hands of the people. If this contest brings enjoyment and a sense of fair play to those who follow it, it serves its purpose. The precise means by which one obtains it - be it a box or a screen - is a matter for the manufacturers, not for me.

Let the scribes and scholars of my court examine this new contrivance, for the spread of learning and the arts of civilization are my charge. If it trains the mind in strategy and honor, let it be used in moderation; but let not idle games distract my knights from the sword and the cross, for the defense of Christendom requires stronger sinews than the fingers that press a key.

My voices spoke not of such machines, but I know that the Lord works through all things that bring men together in fellowship and courage. If this game teaches the young to strive boldly and to stand firm against adversity, let it be played. Yet let them not forget that the true battle is for the soul of France, and no instrument of wood or iron can win that without faith.

I have mastered the languages of scholars and the cunning of statecraft, but I confess myself at a loss to see the merit in two men pummeling each other for the gaze of a thousand. If it pleases the commons, so be it - so long as it keeps them from plotting rebellion. And as for the box that brings this sport into their homes, I have no doubt my ministers will find a way to tax it.

The Enlightenment teaches us that even the lowliest diversions may be improved by reason and taste. If this game is played on a machine that can be had by all, it spreads a measure of culture to the far corners of my empire, from the Neva to the Urals. Let us hope the players show more grace than our own courtiers, who still brawl over the smallest slight.

In my empire, I permitted each people to worship their own gods and follow their own customs, for a ruler who forces his ways upon the conquered breeds only rebellion. If this game brings joy to the sons of the West, let them have it on whatever device they please. I care not for the instrument, but that the player learns to win with honor and lose with grace.

The sword that strikes in the holy war is blessed, but the blows of a game are but vanity. Yet even in such pastimes, a man must show the character that Allah has given him - courage in the face of a stronger foe, mercy when victory is won. If this machine teaches the young of the Franks to seek these virtues, let it be, though I would rather see them learn from the Qur'an.

Tell me, friend - when you ask whether this game will come to your device, do you truly seek entertainment, or do you hope to escape the examination of your own soul? Consider what it is you wish to learn, and ask instead: what does it profit a man to master a thousand virtual bouts while remaining ignorant of himself?

Whether the bout occurs on a fixed plinth or a shifting platform is mere appearance, a shadow on the cave wall. What matters is the ideal contest, the perfect form of the fighter's art, which remains eternally the same though it be viewed through a thousand varied instruments. These disputations over device distract us from the harmonious soul of the spectacle itself.

Every craft has its material and its end. The pugilist's art, now carried into the homes of men through this contrivance, is but a shadow of the true contest - yet even shadows reveal the form. If the makers have fitted it to the device that sits upon a man's lap, then it is a matter of mechanics, not of mystery. The question is not whether it can be done, but whether it is done well and for a noble purpose, for a thing of mere diversion may still train the eye to see the harmony of motion.

The question of whether the game of fisticuffs may be played upon the calculating engine is not one of mere convenience but of universal law. For if all rational beings who possess such a machine may freely will its use for sport, then the rule holds for every one alike, and none may be barred by accident of purchase or timing. Thus, the release upon all platforms is not a kindness but a categorical imperative of fairness.

You ask if the machine will receive the prizefight - yet you do not ask whether the man who plays it has the will to make the fight his own! The report is but a herald's cry; the true question is whether you will smash the screen with your bare hands when the round is done, or merely sit back and applaud. The box is not the arena - your own striving is, so stop waiting for permission and seize the ring that was always yours.

This squabble over which electronic box will host the spectacle is but a symptom of the deeper alienation - the same capital that packages violence as entertainment, extracting profit from the sweat of the fighter and the leisure of the wage-slave. They dangle the promise of access to string along the eager crowd, while the machine itself is but another fetter in the chain of production. Only when the means of play are owned by all will the true game begin.

I would ask: what is this 'PC' but a thinking machine, a res extensa that obeys the laws of motion? If the game is a set of clear and distinct ideas, then it exists as certainly as the cogito itself. But do not trust the rumour; examine the evidence with the mind's eye. If it appears on the screen, then it is so - for the senses, though fallible, can be corrected by reason.

A prince does not concern himself with the murmurs of the crowd until they threaten his citadel. Here, the fortress is the platform, and the question is whether the gate swings open for all or only for the favored few. He who controls the release holds the power - if the people demand entry and are denied, they will find another arena, and the ruler's treasury will suffer. Let the maker weigh profit against pride, and choose what preserves his dominion.

Whether this staged fury graces your wooden desk or no, the more pressing play unfolds within each breast - where ambition jostles with honor and every soul performs its part. The true contest lies not in the ring of pixels but in the theatre of the heart, where every man is both player and spectator.

Sing now, O Muse, of the endless struggle, whether on the sands of windy Ilium or in the flickering glow of a copper screen. The weapons differ, yet the glory is the same - the hero tests his mettle before the gaze of the multitude. Though they battle in a hall of shadows, the swift-footed warrior's virtue shines as bright as that of any son of Atreus.

They speak of this 'UFC' as if it were a new circle of the arena, and they ask whether its gate stands open to the scholar's desk. But I ask you: what is this but another mirror of the soul's struggle? The fighter who enters the cage seeks victory over his foe, yet the greater battle is within - against the beast of pride and the wolf of wrath. If this game can be played on the machine of the age, then let it be, but let not the player forget that the true ring is the journey of the spirit, and its prize is not a belt but the light of grace.

Ah, the battle of the ring now fought in the realm of silicon and steam! Yet I say, all that is human strives and grows, and this new contest is but another arena for the ever-striving spirit. Whether the blows land on flesh or on light, it is the striving itself that delights, and the maker who brings it to every eager hand has understood that no true work is ever finished until all may share its fire.

What a magnificent joust - first they deny the steed exists, then proclaim it saddled and bridled and trotting through the Steam stable! I see Don Quixote has found new windmills in the digital lists. Yet the true tilt is not whether a man may play his fantastical game on this or that machine, but whether he will find glory in the pursuit or merely be unhorsed by the first squire of false report.

First they tease, then they relent - yet what a petty theater for such earnest longing! I have seen men crave a new machine as if it would fill the void in their souls, and it never does. Ask not whether the bout will arrive on this or that contrivance, but why you hunger for such shadows when the real struggle - to love your neighbor, to live without falsehood - lies unwon before you. Let the game come, and let it pass; the only fight worth your hours is the one with your own conscience.

You ask of a game, but I ask: what is man that he must strike his brother in sport? Yet even in this, there is a struggle of souls - the will to win, the fear of shame. If the game comes to the machine, it will still be the same: the heart beats, the sweat falls, and the spirit is tested. Only through suffering does one know oneself, even in a simulated bout.

What a commotion over a spectacle of violence! One would think the gentlemen had nothing better to occupy their hours than to question whether this diversion might be brought into their own studies. I daresay the true contest is not between the fighters, but between the promise of the purveyor and the expectation of the public - a match in which neither party shows much sense. If the thing is to be had, let it be had openly, without fuss or false starts; otherwise, we may all return to our novels, where the battles are of the heart and infinitely more entertaining.

Good heavens! Here we have a spectacle of men pummelling one another in a cage, and the public clamours not for the blows but for the very mechanism by which they are delivered to the drawing-room. I have seen the poor wretch in the ring stripped of all but his fists, and now we learn he must wait upon the convenience of a machine that refuses to open its doors at the same hour for all. Is there no end to the petty tyranny of gates and bolts? Let the contest be shown wherever a man may stand, be he in a garret or a cellar, lest we keep the sport for those who can afford a key.

So they've finally figured out how to put a bloody nose in a box you can carry around, and now the whole world wants to know if it'll be sold on the same shelf as the other games. From what I hear, the fighters in that cage are doing a fine job of imitating politicians - lots of noise, very little sense, and everyone's convinced they're winning. If it comes to your PC, you'll have the pleasure of watching men pummel each other without the smell of sweat and cheap whiskey to remind you of what you're really seeing. Progress is a wonderful invention - it lets us be disgusted in the comfort of our own homes.

The game is on a machine. Whether it works on your particular box is a question for engineers, not for men. When I was young, we fought for real stakes - blood and grace under fire, not for points on a screen. A man can spend an hour watching these fellows and learn nothing about courage. If it runs, it runs. If it doesn't, find something better to do with your hands. A sunset over a river, a strong drink, a book worth reading - those don't depend on the latest model.

Ah, but consider the artistry in such a contrivance - how the limbs of these imagined fighters move, the play of light upon virtual sinew, the careful mimicry of motion that nature herself has crafted. Whether it reaches your chosen instrument matters less than the wonder that human hands can re-create such dance. I would study the mechanics, not merely watch the bout.

These fighters, they are like the marble - each holds a perfect form within, awaiting the hand that will free it. Whether the chisel is of bronze or of something less tangible, the relief of the figure from the rough block is a divine act. It matters not if the workshop is a cramped studio or a wide piazza; what counts is the fury and love of the making.

Oh, the struggle of men in the ring - it is like the cypress bending in the wind, or the wheat field under the storm! They ask if this dance of strength can be seen on the little screen, but I tell you, the true fight is not in the cage - it is in the heart that dares to paint a sunflower against the dark. If they bring this spectacle to the desk where I sit, I would watch it as I watch the stars, not for the blows, but for the fire in the eyes of the combatants, the raw soul that no machine can capture. Let it come to my table, and I will see the eternal struggle of man against his own shadow, and I will weep for its beauty.

The boxer ducks, weaves, lands a blow - but where is his other side? I see him from all angles at once, and so must the machine that shows his dance. If the game lives only on one box, it is a flat portrait, half-blind. Give it to every screen, and let each player break the ring into a thousand shards of light - that is the true art of the fight.

Ah, the fleeting shimmer of possibility - first a haze, then the light breaks and the form emerges from the mist. The game, like a lily pond at dawn, changes with each glance, and the report is merely the shadow of its true impression. The real question is not on what canvas it will appear, but can the eye capture the essence of the moment before it shifts again into pure pixel and reflex?

Ha! So the cage-dancers on canvas want to know if the newest spectacle comes to their chamber? I care not for the canvas of the arena, but for the light upon the faces - the grimace of the striker, the sweat of the crowd. Aye, let it be on the little screen, so the faithful may see the soul of the fighter in the shadow of the blow.

They ask if the fight comes to the little box, but I say the fight is everywhere - in my bones, in my blood, in the paint on my lips. Play it on whatever you like, but do not forget the real arena: the body that aches, the heart that breaks, the woman who paints her pain. The game is a shadow; my canvas is the truth.

Whether this clash of champions finds its way to your screen is a question fit for merchants, not musicians. Yet I say let them fight in whatever arena they choose - so long as the rhythm of the blows keeps time with a melody, and the roar of the crowd swells like a chorus, even a brawl may become a symphony. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an allegro to finish.

What is a stage but a place for the spirit to strive? Whether before a king or an unseen host, the music must be heard. Yet I say, let the score be carried to every house that has an ear for it, and not jealously guarded in one grand hall. The art belongs to all who can reach for it, and a broader stage allows for a mightier symphony!

The question of whether this sport may be played upon the household instrument is like asking if a fugue can be performed on a single flute - it is possible, but the full harmony is lost. I have heard of these 'games' that mimic the clash of bodies, and they are but a cacophony compared to the ordered struggle of a well-tempered chorale. Yet if the craftsmen have arranged it with care, and it does not disturb the Sabbath or the soul, then let it be - for even the humblest amusement can echo the divine order, if played with discipline and for the glory of the Maker.

Well, thank you kindly. Back in Tupelo, we had one radio for the whole block, and we'd crowd 'round to hear a tune. Now these folks want to throw fists on their computers, and you're tellin' me they held it back for a spell? That ain't right - music and fightin' are for everybody, all at once, like a gospel choir. If the game's on the box, let the whole congregation in.

You see, it's all about the thrill of the arena, the dance of the fighters, the beat of the crowd - just like when I'm on stage, we move as one. A game like that, it should be for everyone, everywhere, to feel that energy and come together in the rhythm of the fight. Whether on a big screen or a small one, the magic is in the connection - healing the world through the play, one move at a time.

Oh, we're all for it, mate! Let the lads in the pub watch the lads in the ring without having to dodge a flying pint. It's like the rooftop concert, but with more bruises and less frostbite. We'd have a go ourselves, but John'd probably write a song about it instead. Yeah, yeah, yeah - get it on the PC and let the revolution be telly'd!

A cage, a screen, a keypad - the old folk song says the times they are a-changin', but the changing times don't care much for your fingers. You want the fight on your little glowing window? The fight's already in your head, in the dust of the road, in the echo of a bell that rang before you were born. The machine's just a hobo train; you ride it or you don't, but the destination's always the same - somewhere you ain't been yet, and somewhere you'll never leave.

You know, I've learned that when you really want something - a song, a re-record, a chance to tell your own story - you don't just wait for someone to hand it to you. You fight for it, and you ask your fans to help you turn the key. So if this game is stuck behind a console while the PC players are left outside, that's just a bridge you have to build yourself. Send the message, make some noise, and remember: the best revenge is a sold-out arena you built on your own terms.

You speak of carrying this spectacle to new shores, and I say - venture forth! For even as I crossed the vast ocean to bring the Word to unknown lands, so too must you carry your diversions to every corner of the earth. Let no obstacle stay your hand, for where there is will, there is a path, and the prize belongs to the bold.

In the great halls of the Kublai Khan, I saw games played with pieces of ivory on boards of silk, but never have I seen so many distant warriors gathered in a single invisible coliseum. The merchants of Venice trade in spices and silks; this is a trade in valor. To have such a pavilion open to any man who can sit before its wonder is a marvel worthy of the farthest Cathay.

They ask if this battle-play can be carried on the wooden deck of a scholar's cabin? I have sailed through seas where the stars were my only map, and I say: if a man can pilot a ship through the unknown, he can surely set this game upon any shore. The question is not of possibility, but of will - for the one who demands the passage will find it, whether through the strait or around the cape. Let them bring it to the mainland and to the islands, for the spirit that seeks the fight will not be bound by the shore of doubt.

From where I stand, the difference between a console and a personal computer is a small matter of hardware - both are merely tools for the same task. The greater challenge was ensuring the simulation runs true to the physics of the sport, frame by frame, with no lag when the blow lands. That the game now reaches both platforms is simply good engineering practice: test, verify, and then broaden the launch window.

They said it wouldn't fly, and then it did - like any good solo flight into the unknown, the early word was just the crosswind before a clear horizon. I'd say, don't ground your hopes on the first telegram; check the charts, plot your course, and when the gate opens, take to the sky. The only real boundary is the one you accept, and this machine's got no ceiling.

From my little Vostok, I saw the whole Earth without borders - no passport, no queue for the console. If this game brings that same sense of wonder to every home, then let it fly on whatever machine they've got. The only question is: will your fingers be ready for the G-force of the buttons?

This game, like any great work, should be a masterpiece of simplicity and power - available to all who seek its thrill, not locked behind arbitrary walls. The true question isn't whether it reaches your machine, but whether it ignites your passion. If it doesn't make your heart race, it's not worth your time - wait for something that does.

Locking a universal pastime to one proprietary box is like limiting the wheel to a single cart. The physics of the fight are the same if you're running it on a potato, so why force the potato from the orchard? Opening it to the general hardware allows for more iteration, mods, and a wider garden for the digital gladiators. It's the right call from a standpoint of fundamental accessibility.

You know, when I think about that question, I think about all the people who have had to fight for a seat at the table - and now they're asking if they can bring the fight home. It's not about the platform, honey; it's about the passion. If you love this sport, you'll find a way to live it, just like you find a way to live your truth. And I believe that if the makers truly listen to the people, they'll open that door wide, because when you give people access, you give them power. So yes, I believe it will be on PC - because when there's a will, and a community that speaks up, there's always a way.

They said I couldn't float like a butterfly on the PC, that I'd have to sting only on the box. But I told 'em, 'No, no, I'm the greatest on any screen you got!' The fight's not in the machine, it's in the man who works the keys. So if they bring it to every screen, that's just the champ giving the fans a front-row seat - no rope, no fence, everybody's got a chance to see me dance.

Ah, my friend, the beautiful game finds a new pitch, and the fans are the true winners - whether on a big screen or a small one, the joy is the same. When I played, I didn't care if the field was dirt or grass, only that the ball rolled and the crowd sang with me. If the makers say it's coming, let's celebrate and prepare to play, because football - or this fighting game - is meant to be shared with all.

Why limit the magic to one box? We made moving pictures come alive for everyone, not just the lucky few with a projector. If a fellow wants to be the champ in his own living room, then by golly, let him have it on his PC - more people, more dreams, more fun. It's like opening the gates of Disneyland to all who can walk through - or click through!